


And if you ever asked her why the heck she wore it (All our loves are far, far away.)

by CollyWobbleKiwi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, sher
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:11:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollyWobbleKiwi/pseuds/CollyWobbleKiwi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because Sherlock is dead doesn't mean John isn't out of trouble yet Mycroft has pointed out numerous times. Moriaty's network is still at large and now Sherlock is dead, John is next on their list should they wish to pursue revenge. Mycroft’s tender care and eagle eyes have not been withdrawn simply because… because Sherlock is gone.</p><p>Even the slightest threat has to be checked just to make sure.</p><p>Thus it is a surprise when Sebastian Moran walks into his life again, nine years after a still, silent military court where the ‘recommendation’ that Sebastian retire had been like a gun against the Colonel’s head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And if you ever asked her why the heck she wore it (All our loves are far, far away.)

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the year after the Fall.

_“Stick by me and we’ll get out of here John. Just stick close and stay quiet.”_

John calls out to Sebastian in his waking dreams that are truly memories because Sebastian was always the competent one.

_“Call me Sebby one more time and I’ll rip your balls off”_

Because Sebastian had to be, it was the only way to Sebastian to survive and function. A lot to live up to. A family reputation to uphold. And upheld it was with highest range scores, accolades for marksmanship and promotions despite relative youth (family money and reputation, some whispered.)

_“Fuck the aristocracy. There’s no money left. Only memories of money and reputation, reputation, reputation with the occasional backstabbing to make sure you inherit instead of your bitch-sister and her bourgeoisie husband.”_

The dismissal in spite of this was of no surprise (bad blood all around some whispered). Something dark was lurking there, behind calm, even brown eyes that could judge and recalculate and not even blink as the gun recoiled, all in a matter of moments.

_“Love the rush. Fuck I love the rush. The click, the recoil and the little plume of red. I know it’s sick John but I’ve never felt as accomplished as when I’ve nailed someone and their body slumps, all the rest of their mob scattering like rats.”_

John knows that Sherlock isn’t (wasn’t) the type to simply assume from a name. Mycroft certainly would never do such a thing and John knows that Mycroft’s tender care and eagle eyes have not been withdrawn simply because… because Sherlock is gone.

Even without Sherlock there to wrangle (but what other use did John have?), he has to be protected. Just because Sherlock is dead doesn't mean John isn't out of trouble yet Mycroft has pointed out numerous times. Moriaty's network is still at large and now Sherlock is dead, John is next on their list should they wish to pursue revenge.

Even the slightest threat has to be checked, just to be sure.

_“It will be okay. Just stick close to me John, and stay quiet”_

 Thus it is a surprise when Sebastian Moran walks into his life again, nine years after a still, silent military court where the ‘recommendation’ that Sebastian retire had been like a gun against the Colonel’s head. He would have thought one of Mycroft’s discrete little women, with a black belt in ten different martial arts, would have taken Sebastian down before the former-sniper got within a mile of him (Sebastian is not restricted by a paltry mile if the need is desperate.)

_"You are my doctor! You are supposed to remain confidential!!"_

It’s late.

John caught the bus home.

Even though it hurts, these days he can’t help himself deducing.

There is a girl opposite him, a cellist with carefully trimmed nails, the smell of resin and calloused fingers.  Her thumb is bent to a certain angle almost permanently and her right shoulder hunched up in pain from raising her elbow too high when she plays.

She’s left handed; was forced to write right handed in school which has become her default writing hand if the ink stains on her right hand are any indication.

Oh and of course she’s also carrying a cello case that has the shop’s address on it: ‘Leroy’s music for lefties. Sourcing left handed instruments our speciality since 1958.’

She’s dressed in black, in mourning and not a fashion affection, and she has a red poppy on the lapel of her neat black cardigan. There is recent dirt sticking to her black stockings, upturned not quite-recently given some of the grass growing in it, slightly moist and there is similar mud sticking to the legs of little fold up camp-stool she’s got with her.

Quite unexpectedly her shoes are brilliantly turquoise oxfords with silver laces.

The girl has her hair undone and brushed. It probably has a nice natural wave but brushed as violently as she has, it is floating all around her head like a great brown nimbus and has slid all over her face and shoulders as she hunches over in barely concealed sorrow, offering only slivers of her tightened, pale face with its dried tear tracks.

Girlfriend of a soldier, thinks John. Lost him. Afganistan or Iraq? (His lips quirk up in pained amusement.) Or sister. Can’t tell. No ring but would a sister go out to her brother’s grave to play the cello to him? Depends on their relationship, never mind, most definitely a lover with how red her lipstick is.

Lost her boyfriend/lover/partner.

Perhaps she never played for him because she was too shy but she plays for him now.

Perhaps she plays the way she used to play for him.

He bought those shoes for her, told her she needed to wear more colour.

Unlike Sherlock (most definitely unlike Sherlock) John is a romantic and he paints out this girl’s tragic love story in his mind while doing his best not to look like a complete creeper, tescoe’s bag with its precious milk and tea at his side.

The bus bumps slowly to a halt and the girl shuffles to her feet, eyes downcast and her lips pressed tight together though she can’t stop a grunt of pain as she lifts the cello up against her sore shoulder.

“Here,” John can’t help himself as he rises up, tescoes bag caught in his elbow, and helps her lift the heavy instrument down off the bus, managing this despite the balancing act he has to perform with his cane.

The bus stalls, jerks and he finds himself quickly jumping off the stairwell or risk going arse over kite onto the hard cement below.

A warm hand reaches for his elbow and helps him up.

John opens to mouth to say thanks but in the light of the street lamp above her shoulder, the cellist’s nails are edged with black and the smell of resin is barely a cover for the spice of gunpowder.

“Just stick with me John and stay quiet,” a hoarse voice orders and he feels the press of a standard-issue gun against his shoulder.

He never handed in his gun. Why would Moran?

Slowly he rises to his feet and makes like he’s getting off properly. The bus driver sees this and closes the doors, driving off into the night and leaving John alone here, a gun angled at his shoulder so that the bullet will mash its way through the bone and drive straight into a lung.

“Well it has certainly been a while,” straight calm brown eyes are staring at him from a nimbus of brown hair. Funny. He thought she was blond but it’s always so hard to tell hair colour with a buzzcut.

She still talks in a soft educated voice though.

“Yes,” he agrees, swallowing around his heart in his throat. His palms are sweating but his old friend, the ache in his leg, it’s gone and he rises a little straighter, forcing her to adjust the gun.

Not the greatest idea. It’s dead against his actual heart now.

“Yes what?” Sebastian Moran demands.

“You were discharged.”

“I retired upon recommendation for unspecified medical reasons, try again,” lips go thin again but the gun doesn’t waver. Calm steady hands that were never affected by whatever mercurial mood their owner had haven’t changed in the intervening years it seems.

“Neither of us are in the army any more,” John tries but Sebastian just snarls at him.

“Yes sir,” he chokes out, glaring.

“Still got a soldier in there John. Still cutting your hair the same way. Still seeking someone to order you to stare death in the eyes, or you used to,” Sebastian grins ghoulishly and John swears he can see the edge of St Bart’s roof reflecting in her eyes.

He glances over his shoulder casually but they’re in completely the wrong part of London to see the hospital.

“Got to say John, completely pissed that your man killed mine,” Sebastian comments. The gun is still between them and she moves the cello that John is still holding part of, causing him to drift closer, adjusting the angle of her revolver so he can’t try anything funny and escape.

He wonders what it looks like to the CTV cameras. Like he tripped and he was helped up and now three-continent’s Watson is chatting up the pretty cellist in mourning.

No it will not.

Mycroft’s not stupid.

He wouldn’t have seen Sebastian and assumed ‘male’. He would have sat down and read the file all about the little girl named Sebastian so her parents could inherit a few quid from an uncle of unparalleled vanity.

But would he recognise her from her service picture. Are there any pictures of her as she is now?  She’s changed. God. He didn’t think Sebastian knew the word skirt or what a tube of lipstick was for save a quick and easy way of marking fatally injured and possibly salvageable.

Oh god what has he walked into?

“How’s your sister doing John? At that fancy ‘health spa’ in Brighton isn’t she? Must be nice to have someone in government willing to pull strings and bank roll you like that,” Sebastian comments and John grinds his teeth.

“Oh don’t wreck your teeth. Staying in room 34 isn’t she? Nice. Coincidentally, 34 is the first number that former land-lady of yours picked for her lottery ticket this week. She reminds me of my aunt… offered me biscuits while I was looking at 221C with an eye to renting…”

Chills run up and down John’s spine.

“Cat got your tongue?” The revolver prods gently at him.

“What do you want?” he hisses, squinting into the light of the street-lamp to try and catch sight of the nearest CTV. Then he realises that at the angle the light shines on them, if there is a camera nearby it’s borderline useless. Both their faces are in shadow.

Well played Moran.

“What I want John? I want you to court me,” Moran chuckles indulgently. The light he was just cursing glints off a plain gold chain around her neck, formerly hidden by her hair, and the plain gold band hanging from it side by side with an expensive looking diamond ring that’s probably designer given its retro-modern fusion look.

“What?” John snaps.

“You know. Date. Come pick me up. Take me out to dinner or a walk in the park on the weekends. I’ll show up at your rugby practices… I promise I won’t cheer too loudly and embarrass you. Nice to see that you’ve started socialising by the way, thought you’d go the way of your sister and completely withdraw after losing your Sherlock.”

“We weren’t dating,”

“Fucking,”

“Not that either,”

“Whatever, the point is, I want a boyfriend and I want that boyfriend to be you John Watson, son of Sarah and Henry Watson, living in Aboyne, Aberdeenshire; Brother of Harry and Hamish, uncle of Sarah junior who attends Eastwick Primary near Devon.”

It’s some of the clumsiest threatening that John has ever heard. It’s some of the most effective.

“Right. Date.”

“Date,” Sebastian seems so pleased and the gun is suddenly gone. John doesn’t bother trying anything. Sebastian did tai-kwon-do if he recalls correctly and she’d break him. He can see the musculature that remains, undiminished after seven years and making him quite aware of the softness that has started to creep around his waist.

“See I lost someone recently. Someone dear to my heart. Never thought I’d meet a man like that and I know I’ll never meet another like him again. But time goes on and you have to move on you know. So I want a boyfriend, someone who can be gentle with someone still grieving… someone who can bond with me over shared, recent loss.”

That musculature is tense and tight, ready for swift, effective action and so he keeps his hands down and fists them in his pants to hide their shaking.

He fails.

“And while you’re dating me, your boyfriend’s brother can keep looking for me in Nepal where I was last sighted… and I can wait.”

Wait for what? He has to get word out to Mycroft somehow. The moment he’s out of Sebastian’s sight he’ll text him. Or find a CTV and just lie down in front of it. The latter actually might get him a quicker reaction.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m waiting for John?” Sebastian asks slyly.

“No.” He replies firmly.

“Pity. It can be a surprise then. I’m sure you’ll like it.” Sebastian laughs and reaches up to gently adjust John’s coat in a gesture that might seem just a bit seductive. John’s stomach rolls.

“Come pick me up tomorrow. 221C Baker Street. Don’t be late,” Sebastian slips something into his pocket, “don’t call me Sebastian either or I’ll rip your balls off.”

She picks up her cello and is spinning away with a little bounce to her step that might be seen as good humour; as a woman who has just had a charming older man just flatter her and perhaps ask her on a date.

The light catches on her silver shoelaces and makes the turquoise of her shoes glow beneath the mourning black of her attire. Then she’s gone despite her radiant shoes, gone into the shadows both down an alley and at the back of his mind.

John frumbles for what she slipped into his pocket and pulls out a business card, glancing down at it.

 _‘Ever wanted to see what happens when HMX goes off in a children’s ward?_ ‘it reads in cute, curly, writing on one side ‘ _Loose lips sink ships… or kill kids as the case may be.’_

He flips the card over.

_Mary Morstan,_

_Music Teacher_

_Cello and Piano._

_Home lessons available._

 


End file.
